Weekly Feminist Reader

(We haven’t been able to find a transcript for this video. If anyone is able to post one in the comments we’d be very grateful!)

Some mainstream media recognition for Renisha.

Surviving in Numbers: “the silence is the worst part.”

Sarah Palin and the right’s obsession with slavery.

This data on abortion didn’t come from studies…. it came from polls.

Loving these sister portraits.

“It’s easier to be a ‘slut’ than a virgin.”

The Daily Show asks Is it Racist?

And how about how racist is France?

Increasing diversity in Silicon Valley.

Scandal is causing a stir, but these thoughts on the show are worth the read.

2016: Hillary vs. Warren?

What happens when your food stamps are cut?

“This is progress“: parents can now have two children in China.

Hell yeah: Texas high schoolers revolt over sexist teacher.

New hope for the Central Park Five.

This is incredibly fucked up: critically ill inmates told to pray for healing.

Lily Allen, WTF is going on?

“I will myself making sounds I never made before I went to Mongolia.”

Flipping the cliché of the “sexy Latina”.

Why do we ignore lady chefs?

A documentary about queer women of color poets? Hell yes.

What have you been reading/writing/watching/listening to this week?

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2 Comments

  1. Posted November 17, 2013 at 12:17 pm | Permalink

    I couldn’t find the correct spelling for her cousin and friend’s name, or for the Bantu name. However, the rest should be correct. Please correct if anyone has more information.

    Whenever someone asks me the meaning of my name, I usually never have an answer. I remember looking for it once in a shopping mall kiosk, where the meanings of names are engraved into keepsakes, thinking all the while that the chances of me finding mine would be like the odds of winning the sweepstakes.

    Tired of people mispronouncing it, I shorted it to Con, but they still got it wrong, confusing me with the lady who once sang that song, “Tell me something good.” And tell them something I feel I should, so I correct them. It’s pronounced “Sha-’Con-dri-a”, no silent letters, no accents, preferably pronounced with the drawl of a southern accent.

    I remember there once was a day when I wished my mother would’ve stuck to something simple and pretty and majestic, like Tiffany or maybe even Alexis. But my fate was sealed by signatures on my birth certificate, granting me the right to forever bear the shame of having been given a ghetto-ass name, so this here poem is for all the little black girls with big names. For the -shas and -ishas, the -anas and -iquas, who were told never to write their names on applications. Because we live in a nation where your name can tell someone your race or even your social status, ’cause they think only dumb ghetto folk overuse the alphabet. They chalk it up to illiteracy, never creativity or maybe even history. And I wonder if those who assume would ever stop to think that maybe trans-Atlantic submerged native tongues have re-emmerged in the form of ghetto monikers. Like my little cousin, whose name is Tyneisa, sounds a lot like Tinashe, a name from the Shona tribe, meaning God is with us, or my friend Lakesha, who names sounds a lot like the Bantu name Wakesha. Or maybe like me. My mother knew that I would be a fighter, so she named me Sha’Condria, which sounds a lot like Shaka, the great Zulu warrior.

    See this here poem is for every daughter who ever became a professional only to shorten her name
    to a letter and a period just so phone calls could be returned or, “Hi, your pay earned.” ‘Cause we all know don’t nobody want a an -isha or an -iqua to operate on them. But you see a book cant be judged my its cover nor its title and the story behind your name can’t be contained beneath the tag, so sisters, let them rise and take their rightful places on your applications and business cards, desk placards and uniforms until one day, ghetto-ass names become the norm. But for right now, we’re special you see, and there ain’t another girl in the world with a name like you or me.

    Go forth and rep proudly for all the ghetto named girls, and if someone happens to mispronounce your name, make sure you give your neck a swirl, look them dead in the eye and correct them. “It’s pronounced Sha-’Con-dri-a. Say it right or don’t say it at all.”

  2. Posted November 17, 2013 at 1:28 pm | Permalink

    Transcript:

    Whenever someone asks me the meaning of my name, I usually never have an answer. I remember looking for it once in a shopping mall kiosk where the meanings of names are engraved into keepsakes, thinking all the while that the odds of finding mine would be like the odds of winning the sweepstakes. Tired of people mispronouncing it, I shortened it to Con, but they still got it wrong, they kept confusing me with the lady that sang that song “Tell me something good,” and tell them something I think I should so I correct them. It’s pronounced Sha-Con-Dre-Ah, no silent letters, no accents, preferably pronounced with the drawl of a Southern accent.

    I remember there once was a day when I wished my mother would have stuck to something simple and pretty and majestic like Tiffany or maybe even Alexis, but my fate was sealed by signatures on my birth certificate, granting me the right to forever bear the shame of having been given a ghetto-ass name. So this here poem is for all the little black girls with big names. For the Shas and Keishas, the Anas and Equas, who were told never to write their names on applications, because we live in a nation where your name can tell someone your race or even your social status, ’cause they think only dumb ghetto folk overuse the alphabet.

    They chalk it up to illiteracy, never creativity or maybe even history, and I wonder, those who assume and never stop to think that maybe trans-atlantic submerged native tongues have re-emerged in the form of ghetto monikers. Like my little cousin, whose name is Tinesha. Sounds a lot like Tinashe, a name from the Shona tribe meaning “God is with us.” Or my friend LaKeisha, whose name sounds a lot like the Bantu name Wakeis. Or maybe like me. My mother knew that I would be a fighter, so she named me Sha’Condrea, which sounds a lot like Shaka, the great Zulu warrior.

    See, this here poem is for every daughter who ever became a professional only to shorten her name to a letter and a period just so phone calls could be returned or higher pay earned ’cause we all know, don’t nobody want an -Esha or an -Equa to operate on them. But you see, a book can’t be judged by its cover, nor its title, and the story behind your name can’t be contained by the tide, so sisters, let them rise and take their rightful places. On your applications and business cards, guest placards and uniforms, until one day ghetto-ass names become the norm.

    But for right now, we’re special, you see. And there ain’t another girl in the world with a name like you or me. So go forth and rep proudly for all the ghetto-named girls. And if someone happens to mispronounce your name, make sure you give the neck a swirl, look them dead in the eye, and correct them. “It’s pronounced Sha-Con-Dre-Ah. Say it right or don’t say it at all.”

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